5 Things That Never Happened to Mike Scarlatti
by Ace Bullets
Summary: As the title suggests, these will be five things that never happened to Spike.
1. Babycakes

**A/N: Just some silliness my brain came up with. Enjoy. **

**Five Things That Never Happened to Mike Scarlatti**

_**Babycakes**_

"Screwdriver?"

"Screwdriver."

"No, not the flat-head. I need the Phillips-head."

"Oh, sorry."

"No problem... Okay, here, help me hold this part."

"Okay."

"Good, now grab that piece over there, and slot it in here."

"Here it is. You'd better do it; you're the expert builder."

"Yes, I am. But I want you to learn, too. What if something happens to me? Then who would you get to fix things?"

"Oh, I dunno. But I bet Wordy is pretty handy with tools."

"Wordy! Wordy may be strong, and yeah, maybe he does some handy-man jobs on the side, but he's got _nothing_ on me! A job like this requires _finesse_; a gentle touch."

"Hmmm, yes, I can see that."

"What, you don't believe me?"

"Oh, I believe you."

"Only the best for my Babycakes!"

"You're _not_ seriously going to keep calling her that, are you?"

"Why not?"

"Well, it's what you call that stupid robot at work, isn't it?"

"I use that term of endearment for all the ladies in my life. And when our baby girl arrives, she's got to know that Daddy put this crib together with loving, careful hands."

"Wait a minute...you never called _me_ 'Babycakes'."

"Of course not."

"I thought you said you use that name for _all_ the ladies in your life."

"Well, that's because you're more than just a 'lady' in my life; you're the _love_ of my life, and 'Babycakes' doesn't even begin to cover it."


	2. Hazing Ritual

**A/N: Just some fun nonsense I decided to write. As always, I hope you enjoy.**

**Five Things That Never Happened to Mike Scarlatti**

_**Hazing Ritual**_

Constable Michaelangelo Scarlatti drummed his steering wheel happily as he drove home from the building that housed the headquarters of the Toronto Police Service's Strategic Response Unit.

He grinned at himself in the rearview mirror, and he gave himself a mental pat on the back.

"You did it, Mikey!" he commended himself. "You went in there, and you owned that final interview!"

The preceding hours had been spent chatting with the SRU's Team One sergeant, a guy by the name of Gregory Parker. It had been perfunctory, really; Mike Scarlatti knew his admittance to the team was a done deal.

In fact, after being promoted to Constable, First Class, Mike knew that the SRU was the place he wanted to be. It was one of the elite, specialized units like that usually required a minimum of five years on the job, provided one had attained the 1st Class rank. Sometimes, exceptions could be made, but in Mike's case, he'd done things by the book.

Mike knew he'd impressed his new Sergeant with his technical skills. Parker's smile had been genuine, and his handshake firm when he officially welcomed him to the team.

Over the next few days and weeks, Mike knew he'd be meeting the rest of his team mates; training with them, going on calls with them... it was all very exciting to think about. And word was there was even a chick on the team, Julianna Callaghan. He hadn't seen her yet, but the name, at least, sounded cute.

His sunny mood was soon spoiled by the appearance of a black police SUV, lights flashing, bearing down on him.

"You gotta be kiddin' me," Mike said to himself. He self-consciously checked the speedometer of his '98 model BMW 528i. He'd only been going ten over the posted speed limit. Besides, he was a cop, too. This sort of petty 'offense' was routinely overlooked as a professional courtesy.

Still, Mike obediently pulled over.

The SUV stopped behind him, and the occupants sat inside for several long minutes.

Mike drummed on his steering wheel again, this time in impatience. "What's taking them so long?" he mumbled. Perhaps, he thought, they were actually taking the time to run his plates and check his credentials. Maybe when those cops saw he worked for the same folks who signed their paycheques, they'd come over, say 'hi', apologize for the inconvenience, and let him go.

Finally, the driver of the SUV stepped out. Mike saw the reflection in his side mirror. The guy was big and imposing. His hair was cut short almost like a Marine's. The passenger also stepped out and joined his partner. This second guy was lean, wore dark sunglasses and had a totally shaved head. The pair exchanged a couple words, and 'baldy' took point and approached Mike's door.

Mike rolled down his window. "Good afternoon, constable," he said cordially. He realised he almost slipped and said 'Constable Baldy', and was grateful his wise-cracking mouth didn't get him into trouble this time.

"Step outta the car, please," the bald constable ordered, "and I also wanna see your license and registration."

"Uh, sure...but listen, I'm a cop, too..." Mike protested lightly as he reached for his documents and unbuckled his seatbelt and opened his door. "There's really no need for this – I was only going ten over-"

"Shut up," baldy said evenly, scowling at Mike.

"Okay, sorry," Mike said defensively, standing up outside the car. He handed the officer his license and registration papers. "It's just that I thought we normally let this kind of silly stuff slide."

"Are you asking me to 'look the other way', Mr... Scarlatti?"

"_Constable_ Scarlatti," Mike said, emphasizing again that he was a police officer. "And no, I'm not asking you to 'look the other way', I just -"

"Well that's good, _constable_," baldy shot back, "because it's not good when you try to suggest to me how to do my job. It's also not good when your try to use your position to take unfair advantage and circumvent our traffic laws."

"Hey, I wasn't trying to 'circumvent' anything..."

"Mr. Scarlatti," baldy interrupted, a note of suspicion in his voice, "have you been drinking?"

"What? It's two o'clock in the afternoon. Of course I haven't been drinking!"

"Would you please come right over here, right by the shoulder of the road...that's it...and hold out your arms. Now walk in a straight line, please. One foot in front of the other."

Mike was annoyed he was being given such a lame sobriety test, but went along with it, anyway. Constable baldy was obviously a jerk, and probably felt the need to show he was the superior one in this situation. The last thing Mike wanted was to get into an altercation with a fellow officer for something as stupid as a minor traffic violation.

He walked the straight line for several paces, until the constable called him back.

"Good. Now I want you to stand on one foot, and recite the alphabet. Backwards."

"_Backwards_?" Mike said with a touch of annoyance. He saw the constable raise an eyebrow in warning. Mike sighed in resignation. He stood on one leg and said, "Sure. Fine. Backwards. Um...Zee, Y, X..."

"'Zee'?" Baldy cut in. "What the hell is 'Zee'?"

Mike stared back at baldy, and put his foot down. "'Zee', 'Zed', what the hell kinda difference does it make? You know what I meant."

"This is Canada, Mr. Scarlatti, and we take our alphabet very seriously!"

"Are you _kidding_ me?" Mike sputtered.

"Back on one leg!" baldy barked. "And no more Americanisms. Damn' Yankees have done enough to screw up our cultural heritage and customs."

_Great,_ Mike thought to himself as he once again stood on one leg, _I've got a xenophobic traffic cop giving me a sobriety test. Where do they _find_ these guys?  
_

"_Zed - _Y-X-W-V," Mike began again.

The two constables listened to Mike's recitation.

"...E-D-C-B-A...There," Mike said triumphantly, "the whole alphabet, backwards. Satisfied?"

"No, I'm not," constable baldy seemed far from impressed. "Any five-year old can do what you just did on the playground at school."

"Look, I'm _not_ drunk!" Mike said.

Constable baldy smiled mildly. "I'll be the judge of that."

Mike groaned. "Look, if you don't believe me, just get your partner over there to bring over a breathalyser. I'll submit to one _willingly_!"

"You submit willingly?"

"Isn't that what I just said?" Mike said.

"Okay," baldy said with a grin. He looked over his shoulder and called out to his partner. "Hey, Kev! He wants the breathalyser!"

Mike watched the big constable give baldy a thumbs-up sign, and went back to the SUV where he seemed to be rooting around for something.

Baldy kept a close eye on Mike the entire time, and didn't engage in any kind of small-talk.

Big-guy constable soon appeared, holding out an un-inflated red balloon.

"Thanks, Kev," baldy said, and took the balloon.

Mike stared at the two of them in disbelief. "Where's the breathalyser?" he asked, trying not to show his frustration.

"This _is_ the breathalyser," baldy said. "I need you to blow up this balloon with one breath."

"That's just the balloon... you're kinda missing the rest of the device! You know, the part that actually _analyses_ the non-existent alcohol content on my breath?"

"Oh, we don't need that part," baldy said airily. "Kev here has a nose that's 98.764 percent accurate. He can tell to a hundredth of a decimal point how much over the legal limit you are."

"_What?_" Mike yelled, flapping his arms in anger. "His _nose_ can tell if I'm illegally intoxicated? This is _ridiculous!_"

"Uh-oh," big-guy 'Kev' said, and started to back up.

Baldy slowly pulled off his sunglasses, and squinted harshly at Mike, his blue eyes piercing and intense.

"What?" Mike said, puzzled by the reactions of the other two constables."You can't expect me to swallow that line of B.S..."

"It's not that. You just said the 'R' word," big-guy said woefully.

"The 'R' word?" Mike repeated.

"You don't _ever_ say that word in front of me," baldy growled.

"Sends him off the deep end," big-guy said in a matter-of-fact way.

"You fill this balloon, _now_, or we're taking you in for resisting a sobriety test, and we're towing that hunk o' junk!"

"But this is ridic- this is stupid! You can't _arrest_ me for refusing to blow up a balloon. I've had enough of this crap! Who are you guys? I want your full names, rank, your commanding officer's name, all of it!"

"Edward Lane. Constable, First Class," baldy said.

"Kevin Wordsworth. Constable, First Class," big-guy said.

_Constables First Class?_ Mike thought incredulously. _Yeah, right!_

Ed and Kev started smirking at Mike's obvious confusion.

"You think this is funny?" Mike fumed. "Who's your commanding officer? I can't believe you're wasting my time with this idiotic routine."

Ed and Kev grinned even further.

"We report directly to Sergeant Gregory Parker of the Strategic Response Unit. Above Greg is Inspector -"

"Gregory Parker?" Mike cried. "Then that means you're – you're both... you've been..."

Ed and Wordy howled with laughter.

"Welcome to the team, Constable Scarlatti," Ed said, slapping Mike on the back..

Mike could do nothing but stare at his new team mates, realising for the first time what had been going on all along.

"I think that one sobered him up," Wordy quipped, and the three shared a good round of laughs at Mike's gullibility.

**END**


	3. Call of Duty

**A/N: Why, yes! I _do_ read the results of my poll... As such, I've updated my Spike '5 Things**'** story. Thanks to those 2 people who took the time to vote. Any and all errors in COD: Modern Warfare 2 gameplay as depicted in this story is solely my fault**. **That said, I hope you enjoy.**

**5 Things That Never Happened to Mike Scarlatti**

_**Call of Duty **_

Friendly JTFII_51D

Friendly SniperChickJC

Enemy NinjaGuyDen

Friendly Loretto

Friendly Spike3V

Enemy Flexx

Friendly KraKaToaAh

Enemy CLR

Enemy 0To

Friendly SangreGrande

Enemy URallDeD

Enemy sptzNAZ

"…And we're on. Team Deathmatch okay with you two?" Spike spoke into his Bluetooth headset that he'd synced up with his Playstation 3 console. He was chatting with Jules Callahan and Sam Braddock, who'd both jumped on-line to join him for some co-op gaming.

"Sure, Spike," Jules answered. "just as long as the rest of our team don't turn out to be a bunch of 'noobs', I think we'll be good to go."

"It's only my third time playing this one, so don't expect me to be any good," Sam said as a warning.

"Ah, don't worry, buddy," Spike encouraged the ex-soldier. "Your hand-eye coordination should make you a natural. I like the handle, by the way. Nice personal touch."

"Thanks," said Sam of his Joint Task Force II/Toronto Police Service tribute. "What's with the '3V' at the end of your handle, Spike?"

Mike grinned. "It refers to a famous quote from one of my people," he said enigmatically.

"Your 'people'?" Sam echoed, confusion evident.

"Sure," Spike said, "my people. Romans. Latin-speaking. That's your first clue."

"I still don't get it," Sam said.

"Three words," Spike provided another hint, "all starting with 'V'."

"Okay, cut the chatter," Jules' warned, "the mission's about to start."

"Okay, boss," Spike responded with mock seriousness.

"_Team Deathmatch,"_ a disembodied, yet human-like, computer-generated voice announced, coming through clearly on Spike's speaker system in his basement suite.

On Spike's screen a countdown appeared, and the image gradually shifted from a de-saturated black-and-white to full, high-definition colour on his 42" TV.

"_Take no prisoners, comrades,"_ an accented order filtered through, and Spike took control of his in-game character.

Spike saw two players on his side scurry off in different directions, and the sound of gunfire commenced. He was using an MP5 at present, liking the parallels he could draw to his own weapon with his job on Team One.

"They should totally make an FPS with SRU constables," Spike said, as he casually made his way through the decrepit ruins of a town, searching for enemies.

"_We've taken the lead!"_ the game advised them.

"I think an RPG would be better," Jules chimed in. "It would better reflect the team dynamic. One guy's good for entry, then there's a CQB specialist, another is for sniping, another for negotiating…"

The _rat-tat-tat _of friendly and enemy fire in the game was incessant, but Spike hardly seemed to notice as he conversed with Jules.

"You forgot the _bomb_ specialist," Spike quipped, as he planted a claymore near what he hoped would be a high-traffic doorway.

"I was getting to that," Jules answered, ignoring the rebuke, "I was just concentrating on taking out someone… that's three…"

"_UAV Recon, standing by,"_ the game informed the players, then: "_our UAV is on-line_."

"Four," Jules counted off her kill-streak.

Spike picked off a camper. "One here," he said.

"Five," Jules said.

"_Airstrike, standing by…"_

"Sam, are you behind the count again?" Spike heard Jules ask the blond.

"No…" Sam answered slowly.

"It's not like I can't check the game stats with the push of a button, you know," Jules said.

Sam sighed. "Well, thanks for jinxing me. I'm negative on kills now. Someone named 'Flexx' just sniped me. I hope I respawn somewhere decent this time."

"'_This'_ time?" Jules voice went up in pitch. "Sam, you've been killed two times already? The game's barely begun."

"_Enemy UAV is airborne!_" the game warned.

"Yeah, yeah, go ahead and laugh," Sam grumbled. "You know me, I like finding a nice perch to snipe from."

"And that's what gets you killed," Jules said. "Plus, people hate it when you camp. It's cheap."

"It's not 'cheap'," Sam retorted, "it's part of my strategy."

Spike could picture Jules sticking out her tongue at Sam's petulant response, and he held in a giggle. It was fun listening to them rib each other.

"_Friendly airstrike on the way!_"

A rushing roar and rumble filled Spike's room, and the team kill count mounted steadily as unfortunate enemy combatants were caught in the path of the strike Jules initiated.

+20 flashed on Spike's screen.

"Looks like two 'noobs' just stepped on my claymore," he said, not without a hint of glee. "Why people buddy-up like that in a team deathmatch is beyond me. They're only increasing their chances of getting killed together."

"Ha! Got one," Sam cried out.

"Good for you, Samtastic!" Spike praised.

"Yeeha!" Sam rejoiced again. "Thanks, Spike. Wait, were you just mocking me?"

"Who, me?" Spike asked innocently. "Never. You got one kill. I'm happy for you."

"Aw, damn," Sam groused, before he could challenge Spike on his non-compliment.

"What?" Jules asked distractedly.

"Died again." Sam replied.

"Too bad," Spike said. He switch to his FAMAS assault rifle as his MP5 was empty.

"Your sympathy is touching," Sam snapped. "Remind me to tell Dr. Toth all about how supportive you are at our next psych evaluation."

"_Helicopter support, standing by…_"

"…And ten…" Jules continued her running tally.

"_Friendly helicopter on the way!"_

"Hello, Jules," Spike sang, as his in-game persona slipped past a figure with the 'SniperChickJC' tag above its head. He reloaded his FAMAS and jogged his character into an alleyway.

"Don't joke about Toth," Jules muttered. "If I never see that guy again, it will be too soon."

"He was a jerk, wasn't he?" Spike commented, as he let loose a burst of fire that felled another enemy.

"Where'd they even _find_ him?" Jules asked no one in particular.

"Aw, man…" Sam groaned.

"You died again, didn't you," Jules guessed correctly.

Sam didn't reply.

"Don't worry, buddy," Spike said, "we're still in the lead."

"Damn," Jules swore. "There goes my streak."

"_Enemy UAV is airborne!_"

"You too, Jules?" Spike asked.

"Yeah. It was that 'Flexx' guy. Sniped me from a window."

"I'll see if I can find his nest. I'll toss a grenade up there and scare him out," Spike said, laying out his plan.

"Good," Jules said. "Someone needs to knock him down a few pegs. He hasn't been killed yet."

Sam made another frustrated noise. "Who _is _this guy? He's totally getting on my nerves! It's like I can't go two steps without getting picked off."

"Who, 'Flexx'?" Spike asked.

"Yeah," Sam answered in irritation, "who else?"

Spike crept his character along a wall towards a crumbling building he suspected to be the hiding-place of the offending 'Flexx'.

Suddenly, he was looking at his player's corpse.

"Ehhhh, he got me," Spike huffed. With a frown of disappointment, he watched the re-play from the POV of his killer. "He's good. He pulled off the shot as soon as he saw my head. That was almost an impossible shot."

"_Enemy airstrike is on the way!_" warned the game.

"Oh boy," Spike said as his character respawned out in the open. He began heading for a more sheltered area to try to avoid getting killed by the strike.

Caught by surprise, Spike was once again staring at the dead body of his character. "No way," he fumed. "That 'Flexx' guy can't be _this_ good!"

"_We've lost the lead,_" the game announced.

"Now you understand my frustration," Sam commented.

"He's got a claymore set up at the bottom of the stairs," Jules said. "He'll hear it blow if I take care of it. He'll know I'm coming…"

"Wait for me, Jules," Spike said. "If we both go up, we'll have a better chance of picking him off."

"Okay," she said in agreement.

"Spike, didn't you just say it was stupid for two people to go together?" Sam asked.

"This is different," Spike responded. "This is a tactical manoeuvre specifically designed to take care of a specific problem."

"R-i-i-ight," Sam said airily, "because it worked so well for the two guys you killed with _your_ claymore."

Spike scowled. "Quit your yapping, guy-who's-negative-five-kills."

"_Four_," Sam corrected.

"Whatever," Spike said, deciding not to press the matter. "Okay, Jules, I see you. You can shoot the claymore."

Spike watched the 'SniperChickJC' figure shoot the claymore from a safe distance, effectively destroying the deadly explosive device.

As expected, the 'Flexx' sniper moved to respond to the threat as Spike and Jules ascended the now-safe stairs.

"Ah! He got me!" Spike yelled in surprise as his character's body collapsed on the steps.

"Got him!" Jules cried triumphantly. "Wha-"

"What happened? What happened?" Sam demanded.

"Cheap 'noob' tactic," Jules grumbled.

"What cheap 'noob' tactic?" the blond asked.

"He had 'Martyrdom'," Jules explained with a sigh, "killed me with a grenade when I killed him. I should have been prepared for that. I wasn't."

"Well, at least his streak is over," Sam observed.

"But we're still losing," Spike complained. "If we're going to regain the lead, we need to avoid 'Flexx' and mow down as many of the others as possible."

"I've already got one," Jules said. "Sam, how's the quest for the perfect perch going?"

"Uh, I'm just kinda running around aimlessly here, Jules. I have to say I'm not really having a lot of fun getting my ass kicked."

"More claymore!" Spike declared, as he planted another one of the devastating explosives.

"We are so dead," Sam said. "Some of the other players on our team have bailed on us."

"Yeah, I noticed," Jules remarked. "I guess they got tired of getting killed by 'Flexx'."

"_Enemy helicopter is on the way_!"

"_Enemy airstrike is on the way!"_

"Who _is_ this guy?" Spike fumed, as he watched his character's limbs flail in death.

"_We're losing this fight!_" the computer voice warned.

"Yeah, no kidding, genius," Jules pouted.

"Sorry I wasn't much support for you guys," Sam sounded almost apologetic.

The sound of gunfire and helicopter rotors continued to dominate the game's soundscape as the trio pressed the attack and tried to mount a comeback.

The gameplay came to an abrupt end just as Spike was about to shoot an enemy oblivious to his approach. The screen's colours faded to black and white; the word 'Defeat!' spelled out plainly with their losing score of 550 to 750.

"_We may have lost the battle; not the war!" _the computer voice concluded.

"Great," Spike said sarcastically, and dropped his controller to the floor in disgust.

"Not really," Jules sighed.

"Could have been worse," Sam put in.

"Yes, it could have," Spike agreed, "since most of those deaths were yours."

"Told you I wasn't that great at this game," Sam said defensively. "I don't have the hang of it yet. And you can't totally blame the 'noob'; after all, that 'Flexx' guy was a _pro_."

"Whatever," Spike muttered.

"Spike," Sam said, looking at the game stats, "you didn't say why you've got that 'V3' at the end of your handle."

For the first time, 'Flexx' spoke, coming through loud and clear: "It stands for _veni, vidi, vici_."

Spike, Sam and Jules all nearly froze in place, stunned at the familiar-sounding voice.

"That means: 'I came, I saw, I conquered'. Julius Caesar," 'Flexx' continued. "I think you need to change that handle, Spike, to '3L', or something: 'I'm lame, I'm lethargic, I'm a loser'."

"_Ed_!" Spike cried out in recognition of his Team Leader.

"See you three gamers for duty on Monday..."

**END**


	4. In the Living Years

**A/N: Here's the next installment for Mike. As usual, it's a scenario that never happened to Spikey. This one is a different take on what happened in regards to his relationship with his father. There are minor references in this chapter to certain aspects of religion and faith, so if that is in some way offensive to you, feel free to skip this.  
**

* * *

**Five Things That Never Happened to Mike Scarlatti**

_**In the Living Years**_

* * *

Student-teacher Michaelangelo Scarlatti sat quietly at his desk in the front of the classroom as his students worked their way through their Chemistry midterm exam.

With a small amount of concern, Mike saw looks of confusion cross the faces of several youths in his class. He didn't personally think the test was terribly difficult; he didn't want to be the sadistic type of teacher who took pleasure in throwing in trick questions deliberately designed to trip up a student. But something was clearly stumping a lot of them, and he was curious to know what it might be.

Well, he'd know soon enough, anyway, once all the test sheets had been corrected. Perhaps there was some concept or formula he hadn't explained well enough, though great understanding had been demonstrated by majority of the students on a pop quiz a week earlier. Maybe he could ask his mentor teacher for some further advice about it later on.

There was a soft, polite knock on the closed door, and Mike quickly rose from his chair as he did not want his students to be further disturbed by the interruption. He opened the door and was met by one of the school secretaries.

"Sorry for the intrusion, Mr. Scarlatti," she whispered discreetly, "but there's an emergency phone call for you."

Mike felt an instant tightening in his chest and he inhaled sharply. He let the breath out slowly, hoping to relieve the ache, but the oppressive weight and constricting discomfort persisted. Instinctively, Mike knew the call was about his father, Dominic.

"Khalid," he called out to one of his pupils, "this call might take a while. Would you please make sure all the test papers have been collected and placed on my desk if I don't make it back by the end of the period?"

"Sure, Mr. Scarlatti," the teen answered agreeably.

"Thanks," Mike said gratefully. "I trust that the rest of you will be able to finish without sharing answers, right?"

He received grunts and nods of affirmation from the class, and Mike turned and followed the administrative assistant down the hall to the main office.

True to his earlier intuitive instinct, the call was indeed about his father. His mother, Michelina, was sobbing as she spoke. "Hurry, Michaelangelo… he's fading now. They don't think he has very long."

"Okay, ma," Mike replied, the sense of urgency filling him with dread; hearing the obvious distress in his mother's voice nearly brought tears to his eyes. "I'm leaving the school right now. Tell him he'd better hold on until I get there, okay?"

Mike hung up the phone and turned to the secretary. "I gotta go, Jackie," he said hurriedly. "Will you please let Mr. Joseph know that I've gone to the hospice? Family emergency?"

He saw the genuine concern on Jackie's face as the word 'hospice' sank in. "It's your father, isn't it?" she asked.

Mike nodded.

"I'm sorry, Mike," Jackie said with compassion. "Yes, I'll let the principal know about it. Don't worry; I'm sure we'll be able to get someone to cover for you in your absence."

"Thanks," Mike responded fervently, and rushed out of the office to the staff parking lot.

The drive to the hospital was almost surreal. Traffic was not heavy at this time, but there had been a light dusting of snow on this March day. As such, Mike conscientiously reduced his speed even though he wanted to press the accelerator to the floorboard.

His thoughts kept turning to his father; of his life growing up with his parents. The memories flashed through his mind like scenes from a home movie, filled with light and laughter and warm feelings of comfort and security.

There were his earliest memories of sitting in his mother's lap as she sang to him; of Dominic stopping in to tuck him into bed and of family bed-time prayers. Mike reminisced about stories his father would tell of growing up in 'the old country' – Italy – where they spent a few summers in his teen years.

Mike thought of the white suit his parents had made him wear for the occasion of his First Communion, of Midnight Masses at Christmas, and of extravagant Easter meals and celebrations.

Then there were goals scored and chances missed on the soccer pitch, of academic successes and honour roll certificates that made Dominic – who'd never finished school – beam with paternal pride over his only son's genius at Math and Science.

Uncomfortably, Mike recalled also the times he'd caused his parents grief and heartache. The scarring he'd received when he'd mixed up some chemicals that exploded had been a source of woe for Dominic and Michelina for many years. It had been one of the rare times Mike had openly disobeyed his parents and messed around with things he wasn't supposed to, and the result had been devastating.

Now that one unpleasant memory had slipped through, another was not far behind. It squeezed through the crack in Mike's mental barriers and took control, sending waves of unwanted, depressing emotions swirling within his gut.

The sight of Dominic's face upon telling him of his decision to enter the police academy was not one of Mike's fondest recollections. His father had been at once disappointed, upset and enraged. Dominic been so upset, in fact, that he'd started spewing angry words in his mother tongue as his ability to accurately express himself in English failed him.

But Mike was stubborn; continued on his chosen path in spite of his father's lack of approval. He graduated at the top of his class, and after five years as a beat cop, found a place on the elite Strategic Response Unit as Team One's tech wizard.

Even with those professional successes, Mike and his father still were at an impasse, and Michelina's attempts to get them to reconcile fell on deaf ears.

That all changed when Dominic was diagnosed with lung cancer.

With crystal clarity, Mike remembered the day he came home to find his mother quietly weeping at the kitchen counter as she chopped vegetables for the evening meal.

Learning his father was possibly dying knocked Mike flat. Suddenly, his successes were meaningless in his eyes. His sense of normalcy and family life and traditions were under threat; Mike's long-term dreams of having Dominic as a fantastic _nonno_ to his hypothetical future children evaporated instantly.

"Give him peace, Michaelangelo," Michelina pleaded with him the day the diagnosis came through. "The doctors are not optimistic about how well treatments will help him."

Mike resigned from the SRU the next day.

In looking at other career options, Mike decided on taking an Education degree, knowing his expertise in Computers, Math and Science could be in demand, especially at the high school level. Now in his second year of his Education program, Mike's final practicum placement had him planning lessons and exams for his Chemistry students.

In the nearly two years that Mike had quit the force, he and Dominic had never been closer. They resolved to spend as much time together as they were granted – father and son – cherishing each moment. Before his condition deteriorated to the terminal phase, the two of them managed to cross off a number of items on Dominic's 'bucket list'.

The hospice was not a place Mike liked to be; there was such a dreadful _finality_ about the place. After all, when all other treatment options had been exhausted, a sick person went to a hospice, and barring a miracle, that sick person would die there.

Michelina never gave up hope for a miracle, storming heaven with countless novenas and supplications. Mike didn't bother to dissuade her as he knew she needed her faith to help anchor her and give her peace. It helped, of course, that he and Dominic had indeed reconciled, and that took the edge off of much of her anguish.

Mike hurried into the hospice with one hope in mind: that Dominic had not yet taken his last breath. He found his father's room and stood by the entrance, quietly taking in the scene before him.

His mother's face was awash with tears and Dominic was still; face ashen. Their parish priest, Fr. Warren, was silently ministering to him, whispering prayers under his breath and anointing him with holy oil.

_Last rites_, Mike thought, and the crushing weight he'd experienced earlier in the school office returned. His father really was dying now, and he was helpless to stop it from happening.

Fr. Warren straightened, and saw Mike at the doorway. "Come, Mike," he beckoned. "Your father's been waiting for you."

"Pa?" Mike said, gently taking Dominic's hand as he reached his side.

Dominic's eyelids flickered, and he slowly raised them to look at his son. Michelina's weeping subsided.

"Michaelangelo…" Dominic managed to croak, his breathing slow, torturous and ragged.

"Don't talk, pa," Mike gently commanded, struggling to hold back tears that were stinging his eyes. "Don't be scared."

"I'm not," Dominic whispered, a ghost of a smile gracing his colourless lips. "I have… my son… and I have… my wife…"

"That's right, pa," Mike said, "we're here… Be at peace, pa."

"I am," Dominic replied happily, "thank you… for your gift… to me…"

"What gift, pa?" Mike asked, confused, thinking perhaps his father had received something while in the hospice and had assumed his son had sent it.

When Dominic didn't reply, Mike asked again, more insistent: "_What_ gift? Pa?"

"The gift… of _you_…" Dominic managed, "…choosing… to… give me…peace… of mind."

"Aw, pa…" Mike murmured, tears brimming and slipping down his cheeks. He squeezed his father's hand.

"Now… I go…" Dominic sighed, and closed his eyes forever.

* * *

**END**


End file.
